Street Child

It was midday, the sun even hotter than before, beating down on busy New York. Melody picked up a newspaper thrown on the ground, gasping at the date.

April 14th, 1996.

“Oh no.” She ran a hand through her greasy hair, she desperately needed a shower. Throwing down the paper back on the floor, she broke out in a sprint, weaving her way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk. No need to say ‘excuse me’, she didn’t have time.

Finally arriving on twenty-second street, she stopped, breathing hard. A hundred feet from her sat ‘Cityscape Florist’, a small shop that smelled sweet of flowers. A little old lady that went by the name of Gloria ran the store herself for as long as Melody could remember.

When she was eight, every Sunday she’d visit her grandmother or as she called her Gran. Gran lived in the city, not far from Melody’s home of Brooklyn, but a good distance since her mother didn’t have a car. Melody left the house every morning at nine getting on the bus all by herself. She had taken money from her mother’s purse to pay for her bus ticket. Her mother never noticed the few dollars missing from her purse each week. She didn’t even notice her missing daughter every Sunday.

Once in the city, Melody walked four blocks to Gran’s apartment. It was a large brick building with twenty-six floors, Gran living on the ninth floor. Every Sunday she’d have a big breakfast consisting of pancakes, eggs, you name it. It was more food than Melody ate in an entire week. Although that wasn’t very much.

After breakfast, they’d walk around, Gran pointing out the different buildings. Little Melody would stare at them with awe and amazement. She always loved the city. Their last stop was the local florist where Gran bought a single daisy for her granddaughter. Sunday used to be Melody’s favorite day of the week.

Melody felt bad, she truly did. But she had no choice, she had to do this. She peered inside the window, watching Gloria move around the store. Finally when the shop owner went into the back, Melody went in. She quickly grabbed a bouquet of flowers, all of them carnations. Without another look she ran out of the store and down the street. She had to make it to Brooklyn before nightfall.

Since she already stole one thing, it wouldn’t hurt to steal something else. She should feel bad, Jessica would. But Melody was different. Melody was homeless, Jessica wasn’t. Jessica died. Melody survived.

She ran to the local junior high, school soon ending. The bike rack was filled of all different colored bikes, big and small. She walked down the line, feeling each bike lock until she found one without. It was a light blue bike with metal basket in the front. It was perfect for the job.

Melody hopped on, placing the flowers in the basket and rode away. She peddled as fast as she could for she had a long way to go. The Brooklyn Bridge was about four miles from where she was now, and from there she’d have to travel another three miles. On a normal occasion, she could never travel a distance this fast. But under the circumstance, she knew she had to, and the determination wouldn’t let her down.

The bridge was empty when she finally crossed onto it. Within the next hour, cars would be bumper to bumper like everyday at rush hour. A few people were walking, soaking up the sun. She quickly went around them, pumping her feet up and down.

When she rode into Brooklyn, old memories rushed back. There was the apartment building where her old friend Jodi used to live. In the seventh grade, Jodi and her would spend hours after school together. They’d lay under the big oak tree that was across the street, giggling and smiling. It was easier times back then.

She had another mile to go but she still wouldn’t slow down. Even when Melody rode by her old apartment, she wouldn’t even look. She couldn’t bare it.

The cemetery was empty that day, not a sole in site. She quickly threw down her bike and hurried to the back of the graveyard, looking for the only grave that mattered to her. She sat down in front of it, holding the carnations in her hands.

The stone read, ‘Trevor Lewis Dalton, April 14th, 1991 - September 8th, 1995’.

“Happy birthday,” Melody smiled, placing the flowers on his grave. Carnations were his favorite flower ever since he was three. It all started one day when Trevor and Melody played a game. She’d asked him a question. He’d ask her a question and so forth.

“What’s your favorite flower?” she asked. He stared at her, thinking hard. Even at the age of three, he was smart, she always thought he’d grow up to be something great. Even in the end, she knew she was right.

“I don’t know. What’s your favorite flower, Jessie?” It was his nickname for her. He said it with a small lisp and a smile on his face.

“My favorites are carnations.”

“Then those are my favorite flowers too.”

It seemed like yesterday when Trevor was here. And in her heart he still was.

“I have so many things to tell you, Trev,” she said, her hands folded in her lap. “A lot has happened since I last visited.“ The sun started to go down and she had no intentions of leaving, at least not for a while. She owed Trevor a wonderful birthday and she had every intention of doing that.